The Man at the Bus Stop
by Doughnut of Ericks
Summary: Higurashi, Kagome. Martyr, really bad cook, and the object of a demon's bloodlust. Inuyasha. Bastard, Japanese syndicate assassin and leader, tragic Romeo to an unfaithful Juliet. Doesn't this sound like the makings of a really good fanfic?
1. Impressions

The Man At the Bus Stop An Inuyasha Fanfiction By Doughnuts of Ericks  
  
Dedicated to Raku-chan, my pet monkey, and Sensei Kenery for inspiring me with a story about a red-headed Korean dude who waits as her bus stop. It was my muse in writing this little ditty. Happy Santa's Work Day! And to Kristine, who wrote the fabulous Anime High fanfic (CHECK IT FREAKING OUT!), who inspired me to write an Inuyasha fanfic in the first place.  
  
Okay, sure, maybe, just maybe, Inuyasha might be a bit out of character, and Kagome's character is starting to sound like me on a good day. But I want to delve into a deeper side of Inuyasha and find the sentimental man he is. I know you're thinking "What deeper side of Inuyasha?" Well, get some imagination. Too hard? Buy some on Ebay.com.  
  
Inuyasha does not belong to me. Unless I somehow con Seto Kaiba into making me his wife and buy out his company. Then with all the money, I could buy full custody of Inuyasha. So I'll have all the Inuyasha studs, and a cold, unfeeling bishnonen for myself in which I could rip his shirt off and bite! *cough* Or, I could just stay a poor student, and be content with my fanfics.  
  
"There's a man at the bus stop. For every morning, at exactly 9:00, he waits there, and hours pass by. Then he leaves. It's like he's waiting for someone, someone who never came. I begin to approach him; his figure becoming larger and more menacing as I come closer. Then, I stop in the middle of the road. No, I'm not the someone he's waiting for. I thought this as the sun fell across the line of the horizon. It's like some damn scene from a love story." - Kagome Higurashi, "The Man at the Bus Stop"  
  
Chapter I  
  
"One kind word can warm three winter months." This was a Japanese saying from my Words for The Wise book, given to me by my father in his deathbed. It was only the two of us, two generations of the Higurashi's, before Papa died. Mama abandoned us for a demon lord, bore a hanyou bastard, and died at childbirth. I was a single child, so was Papa, and he himself had no parents to claim as his own. I knew no one in this world, except for the shadow of my mother and the lingering memories of Papa. I, Kagome Higurashi, was nineteen, barely out of childhood, and the sole resident of the Higurashi Shrine. While slowly, agonizingly, fading to his death, Papa remarked his last words,  
  
"You know I'd never want to leave you like your mother did. But what can I do? When you're but a mere human, how can you defy God? You need a father, you'll get one, damnit. Here's a book." With that, his hand, resembling aged paper, off-white, dog-eared, delicate, encased a book, seemingly old, seemingly too sturdy to be in the hands of Papa.  
  
"Take this. It will teach you all the things you need to know in life. Things I don't have the time to teach you. Remember, I love you very much, my little princess." Then like a brief gust of wind, he departed from this world, a corpse when he once was a lively man, a stranger that I once knew. Papa was dead, and I alone had nothing left of him but this book, Words for The Wise. There, in the pages of such a book, were quotes by wise sages, dumb comedians that mistakenly blurted a deep thought, proverbs from ordinary men; I used this book to live every day of my life, mundanely trudging through high school and following the wise words.  
  
The streets were barren, empty, on this Sunday morning. It was void of people; the only movement was the rustling of leaves on the sidewalk trees and the whistling of the wind upon the clouds. I preferred the morning to be as is, like the world evacuated every one, but me, so I could live in blissful silence. What a lonely life that would be. I was flying through the streets on my bicycle, ringing the quaint, little bell on the handle. As I passed, the pigeons scattered in mid-flight to come back again once I no longer raided their morning breakfast. I turned my head over my shoulder to watch the pigeon's comical expression and laughed. The park was overhead, my destination. Once I reached the park, I locked my bike in the bike rack. Gleefully, I pranced to the ice cream vendor and requested a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone. After I thanked the vendor, I enjoyed my ice cream as I strolled through the pathway of the park.  
  
From across the street was a bus stop and a man. In actuality, a man waiting for the bus. Ordinary, yes? Usually, yet the man had a look of anguish, sadness one achieves only through heartbreak, and these adorable pair of doggie ears. His look was torn by age and pain. The man at the bus stop was lonely, without a doubt. I was fascinated by him, by this man at the bus stop, which I now named him. Whatever happened to him that caused him to look like the world betrayed him? I searched through the rummage in my backpack for my book. Once in hand, I turned to the page where it was book marked. Today's quote was "One kind word can warm three winter months."  
  
This settled it. Here, the advice of my own father hinted rather bluntly that I had to assist this jaded man. I jaywalked towards the bus stop, nearly becoming road kill on Shikon no Tama Street when a Lexus SUV raged by.  
  
"Damn you! I'm walking here! Can't you see I'm in the process of doing a good deed? They're gonna canonize me for this." I steamed to the SUV, bringing my hands on the hood with a thud and with that, I kicked the none-too-pleasant bumper. Feathers ruffled, I faced the man at the bus stop who just witnessed my "little" brush with anger. I was behind the suede- glass wall of the bus stop; my hands pressed against the surface.  
  
"I'm sorry for the pain you feel. I'm sorry for the person who has hurt you. I know my words won't mean much to you because I'm a stranger. But my book says that one kind word can warm three winter months. I think you've gone through too many winter months, sir," I said this as he looked with bewildered wonder, then briefly, it went with the ebb of his emotions.  
  
"Feh, wench, run away. Run away and never come back. I can't expect you to have people abandon you." he barked intimidatingly, fangs jutted out. Words like his couldn't touch me personally. He was a stranger, a someone who I didn't know, couldn't care for. Then, I took off, sprinted to no where in particular. I wasn't running away, per say. I was leaving him. I was no coward.  
  
He could not faze me. He, that man at the bus stop, would be another faceless shape in a crowd, passing like the day. I would soon forget him. Yet as I slowed my sprint, staggering a few steps, huffing and panting short breaths, I neared a local bridge over the brook. Over the bridge railing, I saw my reflection in water ripples.  
  
"That bastard. Who the hell does he think he is, telling me that I know nothing about loneliness. I'd like to kick his crotch. Then, he'll know the true meaning of loneliness. Hohohohohohoho!" Through my half- hearted chuckles, tears smeared against the laughter, stained. I tried to laugh, but the tears choked me. At that point, I merely cried, and my reflection in the brook cried as well; image broken.  
  
Damn if I let that man break me.  
  
***  
  
"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." It was today's quote, given by the poet Robert Frost. It was also the only advice I had before my job interview in Okinawa. Like before, I said that I was nineteen and unemployed; I had no one to support me, nor did I desire someone to depend on. So, I took the road less traveled by, like Robert Frost said, and decided on a job that requested me to extend to a city so far away.  
  
As I strolled to the bus stop, I recollected the situation yesterday. The day before today, I was standing at that very spot from across me, consoling a man who would not accept my comfort. Uneasy, I took my steps languidly, as if he still remained in the bus stop, waiting for something that would never return to him. Once inside the bus stop, I realized there was nothing but an empty seat. Then, I took his place where he once sat, despondently. Absent-mindedly, my fingers traced the splintered wood of the seat, barely grazing, as if tracing his skin. I feared and pitied him like I did the seat; it had the power to harm me, but the abuse it contained itself caused me to treat it delicately. My hand lingered to the bottom of the seat, where I discovered a letter tastefully placed.  
  
Woosh! The doors of the bus opened its arms to me, responding with the same, familiar sound it did every time. Startled, the letter spilt into my shoulder bag, and I entered the bus, paying my toll, and taking a seat on the first, right chair like I always did. Remote from all the noises and movements, from the constant itching-of-the-butt that the bus driver had and her snorts, I took the letter from my bag and eagerly read. The handwriting was obviously male, apparently tender, and the paper emitted an earthy smell of the deep forest. Fukai mori . . .  
  
December 1, 2003  
  
I've never been good with words, nor feelings, but I do feel, like I breathe, but no one's heard me, but you. I've been raised as a harsh man, no doubt, and I know no other ways but that of a harsh man. But men do feel, like they breathe. I recall the days before I've met you, and they've been nothing that'd would serve me good. The mornings were longer, the nights more bitter. The people less humane, the demons less forgiving. What have I but you? Even in silence, you understood me like the times we'd sit underneath the cherry trees, and my thoughts were only that of how beautiful your kindness was. Beauty that stirs a dormant man to cry.  
Now you no longer sit underneath those trees, nor stay in deep, reverent silences. You don't exist anymore, but you are everywhere. I could still smell you on my skin, your laughter still echoes, and this causes me to weep. Why couldn't you leave with everything you are than lingering, torturing, captivating me like you once did? Damn me if I don't miss you as much as I do. But, what is a man to do? What is a man to do if he has nothing left for him to live on? No woman for him to cherish, no companion to walk with. No mother for his children, no wife to a husband. What have I left, Kikyou?  
I write letters to a ghost, for that I am sure. I also write letters to the one I love. Can you blame a man for loving his mate? Love, the loneliness is consuming me, and I, under the weight, cannot restrain against it. What I wouldn't give for you to return to me. Take my soul, my demon, my strength, my eyes; make me vulnerable, weak. Return to me.  
  
Inuyasha  
  
And for hours, I read and reread, memorizing the curve of every word, having my heart reach for this man. His love for "Kikyou" was dynamic; his devotion admirable. I didn't know this man, his secrets, his quirks; I don't know the angles of his face or recognize his eyes, but I knew his heart. On this letter, he portrayed his emotions and his obsessions. Inuyasha loved this ghost; something even the means of life and death couldn't annihilate.  
  
"Hey, Kagome. Our bus route is finished. You gotta get out, so I took you back to the street before the bus stop. Don't want the boss to see me giving free rides to underpaying customers," the crotchety bus driver grunted. Her name was Kaede; she was apparently a senior driver of this bus' company. At times, from the weariness of her eye (the other was covered by an eye patch), I could sense that she realized that too many years passed for her. I handed her the letter in attempt to find who this man was.  
  
"Kaede? Do you know who this might have been?" With a suspicious look in her eye, she indulged in the letter; the exhaustion in her expression growing more severe. She sighed and then took a seat beside me. Her head leaned backwards, eyes wide shut, trying to keep the tears from trailing to their demise. Kaede always had a confident air about her like age didn't jade her like most of the elderly, but now, she was torn and old, lacking the crude humor. Where the bus was parked, the view of the bus stop was clearly seen, however no one could spot us from there since we were hidden by a row of trees. At the bus stop was the same man, waiting with the same broken look.  
  
"I thought I could walk away from this. That once I was an eye-shot away from all the memories, she would leave me, leave us, actually. But, Kikyou was never like that. She could never fade away; no matter what she did to us, we loved her despite that. Let me tell you a story, a tragedy without an end, Kagome. There once was a priestess Kikyou who owned the heart of an abandoned hanyou. Long before this, there was a hanyou with the name Inuyasha who didn't have a place in two worlds. He was lost, and she found him on her doorstep like a stray puppy. This man was withdrawn, unable to attach himself to anyone. He didn't welcome her compassion, nor did he hate it. She cared for him, and in return, he loved her. They were both strangers to each other. She didn't know anything of his past, and he was closed from hers. Yet, he loved, damn. His love for her was so profound." Through the retelling of this tragedy, her eye would stray to the man at the bus stop. It was subtle, barely unnoticeable, but I saw her gaze. That was Inuyasha, the writer of this letter.  
  
"She didn't love him, couldn't. She only saw him as a beloved brother. Then, the truth about his past was finally exposed. He was the sole inheritance of the Inu Corporation, with his older brother missing. He had a family, a cousin named Naraku. She met this cousin and loved him. Inuyasha and Naraku loved the same woman, and she could only return the love for Naraku. In one of his temperamental fits, Inuyasha demanded her to choose between him and Naraku. If she loved him, they would meet at that bus stop on Sunday morning." Bile gathered in my throat, thick with emotion. Soon enough, I watched Inuyasha, as Kaede did. My eyes could not abandon that dark figure at the bus stop; even if I demanded, it would ignore me like a shadow walking across a room.  
  
"She never came. Kikyou was waiting outside Naraku's house in the rain, watching and hoping he would be there. In the rain, for hours, she waited and died of consumption the next day. Here, you'd think that Naraku was a sick bastard that played with her heart. It's not the case. He loved her as well. He assumed that she would be waiting by the swings in the park, at the same time, she was waiting for him at his house. When he learned of her death, Naraku took his convertible to the highest point of the cliff by the ocean and walked off the edge. Strangely, his body was never found." Like Romeo and Juliet, a tragedy ending in death.  
  
"And now that man at the bus stop, Inuyasha, waits at 9 o'clock each morning, hoping that Kikyou would step from a passing bus and choose him,love him, over Naraku. That was about a year ago," I traced his figure on the window glass; fingers over the shadow of his defeated slouch absently. Inuyasha. A soul which needed the care of another person, even a much-needed touch of a woman. Quite passionately, I sharply turned towards Kaede, fists clenched, leaving whitish marks left by my fingernails.  
  
"Papa once told me that there would be people like me out there. That I wasn't the only lonely person in this world. I promised him that I'd help out someone like me, so they wouldn't have to endure the pain I've had. I would be a hypocrite if I walked away from him now, from that man at the bus stop. This Inuyasha needs me more than I've ever needed anyone." My hair flared with the speed of my sprint out the bus. I paced to the front of the bus and then halted. With a few breathy whispers from my lips, I inquired what was her relation with Kikyou and Inuyasha. Why she knew such a story? Who was she to the characters of this realistic fairy tale?  
  
I couldn't see much of Kaede's face because the shower of her salt- and-pepper hair masked much of it. Dramatically still, she said, quite simply,  
  
"Kikyou was my daughter, and Inuyasha was the man who loved her."  
  
***  
"I'm making all this effort to dance with this rude guy." Aya Fuji, from the graphic novel, Forbidden Dance by Hinako Ashihara was this day's quote. It could mean the very words it state. Today, I am to make all this effort to dance with a man who would not have me, who couldn't bear to see my face for some reason unknown. Today, at this moment at 8:59 A.M. (I checked the time with my Emily Strange watch, imported from the states.) I was behind a telephone pole, in cognito with thin framed glasses and hair in two schoolgirl braids. Clutched and tied with a handkerchief that displayed puppy dogs was a bento box filled with breakfast delicacies I myself made.  
  
After I jaywalked across the street, nearly ran over by a delivery truck owned by Taiyoukai Dog Treats, I faced the bus stop, stopping just a foot from the bench, by the dog demon sitting slouched on it. At first, he sat there, immobile with his thoughts, and his breath steady and still. Then, he took several sniffs of the air and plastered a look of intrigue and delight. Inuyasha looked at me with my bento box underneath my arm and glasses skewed.  
  
"Hey there. My name is Kagome Higurashi. Well, I saw you sitting here, and it's breakfast time. I see you sit here everyday, and you don't leave for some time. So I thought you might want some food, and I brought you some. I hope you like it because I spent an hour working on it. I'm not much of a -" I was interrupted by a growl coming from his lips.  
  
"Look, wench. I don't need you to feed me with your poison. Go the fuck away, wench." My, my, someone has a dirty mouth that needs to be washed with soap, again and again.  
  
I approached him with heavy steps and stared menacingly at his amber- washed eyes. Though they were deeper than amber skies with passing clouds and seas that have no end, I broke free from their captivation. I jabbed a finger on his chest, which I might admit was finely muscled and quite a work of art.  
  
"You, sir, should be grateful to me. Someone actually cares a shit about you. You yelled at me. You cursed at me. The least you could do is eat the food I made for you. Here, try one my strawberry rolls." From the box, I took out a delicate pastry filled with strawberry filling, shaped as a squid with my fingers.  
  
"It's yummy, yummy, yummy." On a bout of impulse, I started to fly the squid to Inuyasha's mouth like a mother feeding her infant with a spoon. From my lips, I made airplane sounds. His arm swung to release the bento box from hands, splattering his breakfast on the sidewalk. Amazingly, I still held the squid-shaped treat in the tips of my fingers. I placed the dessert in his mouth; my fingers brushing barely over his lips. At this, I stared at my fingers as they tingled from contact.  
  
"Well, at least taste it. You never know." I muttered as his eyes flashed an expression of surprise and an underlining desire. I backed from my seat beside him to clean the sidewalk from my several, sugary delights. Over my shoulder, I peeked to find him watching me with those eyes: absorbing, feral, and intrigued. I also observed him for the first time. He was a wonder of masculine art: eyes his best feature, and his hair, a mane of exotic white, added to his beauty. Beauty that was neither feminine and delicate, but entirely male like a man that could consume a woman with a look, that one look of want. He had canines that gave him an animalistic effect, roguish. Those puppy dog ears, casually twitching, on the top of his hair attracted my hands; I needed to touch them, to feel the only softness of a man who couldn't display anything but hostility and cold bitterness. Someday ...  
  
"Sir, doesn't it taste excellent?" He neither nodded in approval or sneered in dissatisfaction. He merely stared, occasionally sniffing the air.  
  
"Though I understand if you don't like it. So, I brought the greatest innovation of the Japanese culinary world: cup ramen!" From my backpack, I took several cup ramens and a thermos filled with hot water. I poured the hot water into a cup and placed it in his hand. If he doesn't like me feeding him, then he needs to learn how to feed himself. Darn picky men. With the cup ramen, I handed him my Hot Gimmick chopsticks (the cutesy, kawaii-esque chopsticks with a chibi Ryoki on the tips). Once in his hands, he took a whiff of the substance and collected a massive chopstick-ful of ramen, feeding it into his mouth. Then at a rapid pace, he consumed the entire cup.  
  
"See? Ramen is a great, good thing. So, you sit here every morning. Are you waiting for someone? Seems kinda maudlin to me, don't you think? Like part of a love story?" The moment the words escaped my mouth and the look of remembered hatred passed his eyes, I knew I would regret my words. I was always reckless like that, speaking words that I know I should never say. He had on such an expression of carnal aggression that I backed away from his approaching figure. Inuyasha stalked closer and closer like a predator eyeing his prey before the pounce.  
  
Then with hell-bound speed, I was bound to the suede-glass wall of the bus stop. His menacing, claw-like fingernails dug unto my wrists, nearly piercing the skin, always at the brink of breaking the skin's surface, but never drawing actual blood. He was in a semi-embrace position with his head nestled where my shoulder met my neck. I could feel his rapid breath on my skin. Warm. It was warm, almost a comfort. It hurt; I was caught between pain and pleasure.  
  
"Bitch. Leave me the fuck alone. You know nothing." His words danced on the surface of my skin. From the point of my neck and shoulder, his nose traced a pathway upwards to the shallow indention on my neck. It laid there buried; Inuyasha drunkenly teased it back and forth and took occasional deep breaths. The feeling of tasted pleasure washed and ebbed over my body. My body betrayed my mind as it said to run from this sinful demon. To escape his molestation. Yet, all I did was feel, and it felt so damn good. His grip on my wrist transferred to the middle of my arms and flung me to the sidewalk. I sprawled there; my hair distorted and glasses skewed. Above me, he towered aloof, a stranger who knew my body better than I did.  
  
"I suggest you stay the hell away from me unless you want to get raped."  
  
That day, instead of cowering from him and running home like I did the other day, it was him who strolled the sidewalk and walked away. I still remained on the sidewalk as his figure turned into a black speck in a distance.  
  
"I really do make all the effort to dance with him."  
  
God damn, he did get the last word.  
  
A/N: How the hell was that? If you want, you can send my a review, flames, suggestions, comments, or nominations for the Nobel Literature Award. If you don't want, WHAT'S THE CHANCE A FAT CAT MIGHT END UP NEXT TO YOUR BEDSIDE AND EAT YOU!? 


	2. Letters Without Replies

Disclaimer: Mmph. Look at the disclaimer of another Inuyasha fanfic. They're obviously cloning the disclaimers, and since I'm too lazy, look at theirs. It's what I would say if I enjoy wasting my time, typing pointless legal stuff. Plus, I'm poor, so don't sue. The government is my friend. I swear.  
  
Chapter II: Letters Without Replies  
  
There's a man at the bus stop. For every morning, at exactly 9:00, he waits there, and hours pass by. Then he leaves. It's like he's waiting for someone, someone who never came. I begin to approach him; his figure becoming larger and more menacing as I come closer. Then, I stop in the middle of the road. No, I'm not the someone he's waiting for. I thought this as the sun fell across the line of the horizon. It's like some damn scene from a love story.  
  
It was the afternoon after the incident yesterday. Unconsciously, I rubbed my bruised wrists which was left by Inuyasha. I doubt he knew the dodgy strength he possessed; a man like him knew only of passion and impulses, actions lead by the first thoughts, by what moves him. Retreating, I walk to the familiar telephone pole, leaning against its crude sturdiness. I couldn't approach him today, nor tomorrow, maybe I won't be prepared until after eternity. I turn my head towards the bus stop once again, finding it empty, abandoned, maybe less destute without him. He's gone to whatever home that carries him.  
  
I trailed across the street to the bus stop. Taking a seat, I could still sense the warmth that lingered on the wood. My fingers routinely searched underneath the bench for yet another letter. Finding a paper attached to the bottom, the fingers clumsily, hurriedly, freed it from its taped binds. I unfolded it in anticipation. The letter emitted the same unearthy smell. It was Inuyasha . . .  
  
It began as it always did, with the date, as if a constant reminder how time stops for no one, not even the dead and their tragedies.  
  
December 4, 2003  
  
I sit and I wait, sitting and waiting as the cars speed by as if always in a hurry, the people are no different. I also write letters, letters to you. At times, I wonder if writing letters are enough to return you to me. Then, reality beats me down until I can see just black and blue. I could do nothing else but write letters that receive no replies. I have nothing else to occupy my life, but these letters. I shall be an old man, illness distorting me into a shadow of who I once was, and still writing letters to you, for I still shall love you. Then, death and age, hand and hand, will claim my life, like it did yours, and I shall perish with my letters.  
And I shall die contently.  
Is this just an obsession, or is truly love? Or maybe a chaos of both? The word "chaos" defines life at the bus stop. The riot outside stirs something within me, a longing, maybe to become part of it. Yet, I would never abandon you, or this bus stop, even for a moment. It takes but a moment for you to pass by, and I, in the process of blinking, will miss you.  
I want to draw you in an embrace, to take in your wonderful, wonderful scent, and live in a state of ecstasy. I long for human contact, demonic contact, a touch, a taste, a look, a whisper, anything to inform me that I live in reality. Yet what good is reality when it is filled with misery? Today, I scarred myself for causing another pain. I delved underneath the surface of my skin and created a deep gorge. It stings, but the guilt pains me like no physical pain.  
I ask forgiveness, but I'm unable to forgive myself. Kikyou, mate, pardon me for becoming a man you would have no respect for. Maybe then, I could find the will to release the guilt into the reality outside the bus stop, where it can hide amongst its kin.  
Return to me.  
  
Inuyasha  
  
The letter ended with his name, Inuyasha. It seemed simple, yet intimate. Far more than the "Your Darling's" or the "Love's" in mundane, poorly crafted love letters. His were raw, honest, affectionately so, and filled with undying devotion for a woman whose denied him for another man. I stared at my bruised wrists. Was this the same man who wrote such letters?  
  
Then, I came to realize that he was stricken by guilt and burden by it. He was sincerely sorry for what he's done to me, even if he hasn't spoken it with words. That drew a premature grin on my face, uncertain, but happy nonetheless. I was sober, for that I was sure, and I haven't taken any drinks. I was underage. However, I felt the weight of my sleepless nights making my eyelids lazy, and the scent of Inuyasha overcoming me with a sense of comfort. Slipping the letter in my backpack, I laid on the bench, though the rough surface of the bench was not a good bed, and felt the sleep drawing me in. Pitch-black. I was out cold.  
  
***  
"I'd break any rules or moral code just to be with you," Yuu Matsuura, from the graphic novel, Marmalade Boy, Vol. 8 by Wataru Yoshizumi, was Monday's phrase of the day in my Words for The Wise book. Somehow it isn't advice that would take me anywhere, stir something within me, or guide me through a path of righteousness. Yet, these things have a way of ironically smacking you in the face like a paradox with a mask.  
  
Ticklish.  
  
I felt warmth and moisture trailing down the path of my neck, lingering here and there as if it was in a search for something, but found a distraction in something else. It felt like an insatiable rush of the tides, drawing me in, but the menacing threat of it makes it a dark allure. I brought my hands to the roof of this head, fingers brushing through velvet silk material like a puppy's ears.  
  
Growl. A deep rumbling came from the base of my throat.  
  
I opened my eyes to find two amber orbs, a childish guilty look reflected in his eyes, under a haze of drugged seduction. They were familiar. Then, I realized it was Inuyasha sprawled intimately against my own body. Shocked, my impulses provoked me to scream, and that I did. It echoed through the streets, causing the birds to flee from the branches, and the children biking from the opposite street to stare. His ears were twitching, and an expression of agony marked his face.  
  
"Bitch! Stop screaming. It's just me." Yet, I wouldn't stop my incessant screaming, not for anyone, and especially not for Inuyasha, my repeat offender for molestation. Then, he brought his hand to my mouth, closing off the noise. Still infuriated, I bit his hand on impulse, causing a string of foul language from the dog demon. His hand still remained on my mouth, but now he glared at me with a look that could bring crowds to silence.  
  
"You bit me."  
  
"No shit." I mumbled under his hand. It was then a scarlet blur collided with the side of Inuyasha's cheek, smearing against his skin like a stain on a white shirt. As the red slosh trailed down his shirt, I realized it was a tomato thrown ruthlessly at Inuyasha. I turned my head to look for whoever thrown it. I scanned through the crowds from left to right to find a middle-aged woman with her eyebrows drawn tight and a disapproving grin. In her hand was a bag of tomatoes which she took from her grocery bags.  
  
"Monster! Get away from that innocent girl. You're just a raping, murderous freak. Get away!" Her screams echoed the streets, and hollow silence amongst the crowds were filled with her profanities. Inuyasha was still in a state of shock, barely moving, barely breathing. His eyes were now as hollow as the silence, a pool of drowned amber staring at the floor. Despite all the strength and aloofness he displayed, I knew he was hurt, beyond that, he actually believe the lies that bitch yelled. My nails were digging into my palm, hands into fists, as I stared at the woman in consuming rage. As I moved with my impulses, I jumped up from the bench, sharply, defiantly.  
  
"How dare you?! How can you even compel yourself to throw that tomato at him? Who gave you the decision to decide whether someone who worthy to talk to another person? There is only one monster here, and it's you. Take your tomatoes, and go away. You have no right to even be in a 20-mile radius of him," I spat to her. She looked miffed, and with her nose held up high, took her tomatoes and left. I turned to Inuyasha to find his back facing me as he slouched sadly. I started to reach for him before he interrupted me with a voice I've never heard coming from his mouth.  
  
"Don't. Bitch, that lady was probably right. I'm just a monster. A freak. I've been one all my life. Who was I to think I was anything else? And you're an innocent girl. I can smell it in your blood. It's virgin blood. It draws demons and hanyous. They can't deny themselves from defiling a virgin. It's like adrenaline to a demon. I will take you if you don't get the fuck away from me. It's not going to be candlelight and sweet words. Fucking is fast and deep and rough, especially when concerning a virgin." he growled menacing, every bit a demonic undertone. There was a roguish glint of his eye, indicating that he'd "enjoy" it, every sultry, heated moment of it. I shivered, partly out of fear and partly out of a sensation at the base of my abdomen.  
  
That caused me to hesitate a few steps, backing up a few feet before striding to him with a determined air. I kneeled before him, taking out a handkerchief from my pocket and wiping away the tomato juice from his face. His eyes flashed briefly an emotion of surprise, and then as the tide ebbs away, it disappeared to God-knows-where. They were hard again, cold ambers in the shadow of carnality.  
  
"I trust you. Despite who you think you are, you're not as bad as you think you are. So I trust you. I know you'll never doing something like that. You're not that kind of man. Plus, I may be a virgin, but I'm not attractive enough to be jumped on by some horny demon. Do you think I'm attractive, Mr. Person-I-Don't-Know-Your-Name?" He then looked at me as if I grown two heads and I asked him if he'd like to kiss one of them.  
  
"You think you can just ignore reality with your happy-go-lucky humor? Wrong, bitch, the world is cold and cruel, and it always has a frown on its face." He turned his head to look at me with eyes hazed with this untouchable frost like glass-paned windows. There was no emotion contained in them. I extended my arm to his shoulder in some form of reassurance, anything to comfort the inner demon. Like a stitch of lightning, his fist grasped my paper-thin wrist with an iron-clad grip. I was sure that I was bruising underneath his hand; skin turning an ugly black-and-blue.  
  
"Just stop it. Stop it. Stop offering yourself to me. You're a virginal tease. You don't know that you're offering yourself as a sacrifice to me. I'm trying my best to control my demon blood, but once I see red, I cannot guarantee you your chastity. Leave me. Leave, or be claimed." His warm breath hovered on the skin of my face, as he pushed his face an inch away from mine abruptly. Growls, his growls, passed with every well-drawn breath, and his canine fangs jutted out from his mouth. It added a feral look to him, the one of dominance and seduction like those pocketbook characters as sadistic slave owners with their female servants. Nonetheless, I spoke and received my consequences.  
  
"I don't believe that. I can't believe that. You aren't that demon creature those stereotypes claim you are. You are a man of dignity and character. You are the man you are. I don't think you'll rape me like you say you will. I'll prove to you one day, and you'll believe me."  
  
"Don't speak too lightly, little girl."  
  
"So what? I'm a little girl now, and not a wench. Big improvement there, boss." Even before I spoke those words, his grip on my wrist moved to grab my other wrist in a bouquet of tiny, feminine hands above my head. Our position allowed him to bring his body closer to mine, touching intimately with his "bulge" brushing against my abdomen.  
  
"What dignity? What character? For all I care, I just want to fuck you." Bringing his mouth down to mine, he roughly took what he wanted; rough tongues traveling and our hands entwined, groping the other hand in search for something that couldn't be found. He then drew blood from my lip with his canines, and the sting of the wound and saliva gave me this sensation between pain and ecstasy. His tongue lapped my cut, unable to find some satisfaction in the end.  
  
He was addicted to my blood. It drove him wild, heady on my Kagome drug. I doubt he knew that, and if he did, Inuyasha would deny it; he doesn't like depending on another. His perspective thinks it makes him weak, so unlike a demon, more human than anything else. Like Anne Rice's Lestat character from An Interview with A Vampire, he took my blood, agonizingly cutting the wound in shallow punctures, drawing more blood each time.  
  
It hurt physically, but I was more than numb at this point. I just drowned in this sea of blood and the vampire-esque Inuyasha and the thrill. The blood and his lips were doing something to me that a virginal tease like me (so I quote) wouldn't know of: arousal. Plain arousal of the mind, the senses, and the body. Inuyasha then, reluctantly more than anything else, backed away. His thumb brushed my swollen lip, tainting his finger with a drop of red blood.  
  
He brought it to his lips and licked it off, as he kept my gaze with a satisfied, male-pride grin. He knows, probably smelt it with that damned nose of his.  
  
Inuyasha could sense my arousal, and now he was grinning like a masochistic little boy that received a set of whip and chains for Christmas.  
  
"Like I said, it's all about rutting and screwing you. I am addicted to your blood, your scent, your skin. I will not hesitate to claim you if you come near me again, and there won't be any love-making. I will get you out of my system if I have to. Anything to end these fantasies." Gathering his haori-rat red coat, he slipped it on and strolled away, muttering, leaving the wind to gather the hovering scent of arousal and sending it far from here.  
  
His last whisper before I couldn't hear his mutterings anymore were, "I swear if I have to fantasize about her with those whips and chains, I will go crazy and rut with the next person I see. Could even be that damned Kouga. Fuck."  
  
Fuck, indeed.  
  
A/N: Well, how's that for a bout of writer's block. So those reading, I guess you've figured what kind of story this is. It's that faint line between Dark and Fluffy, Realistic and Fantasy. It's a fat ass freak show. I guess that's the kind of story I give birth to. Maybe it's because I'm a weird, Catholic schoolgirl who listens to Incubus and Postal Service while reading a novel and who is obviously not getting enough loving. Or haven't met a cute guy with nice biceps and sexy hair. Sexy, fuck-a-licious hair.  
  
God damn, I'm starting to sound like one of the Fab Five from Queer Eye. You know, the gayest one of all . . . Howard Dean. Wait, is Howard Dean part of the Fab Five? 


End file.
